


Picking Up the Pieces

by inusagi



Category: Torchwood
Genre: Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post-Episode: s02e13 Exit Wounds
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2013-09-22
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:35:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,346
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/976153
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inusagi/pseuds/inusagi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-Exit Wounds, Jack is falling apart. Day 26 of the July TW Oneshot challenge (Posted late)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Picking Up the Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: Yep. Torchwood isn’t mine.   
> Warnings: Don’t read if you’ve not watched up to Exit Wounds.

Gwen is crushed. She’s just…not cut out for this line of work, no matter what I tell myself. Yes, she brought fresh eyes to Torchwood, a certain element that we didn’t have before, but Torchwood is _loss_. Torchwood is _death_. Gwen isn’t cut out to handle that reality, to work with people, get close to them and then have to cope with it when they die young.

I want to coddle her, just hold her in my arms for a little while and let her cry it out while I shush her and tell her everything is going to be alright. I wanted to give her all the pretty little lies that I could dream of until she was back to her stubborn, willful self.

I did just that, for a little while, but I couldn’t justify putting off all the things that need to be done. I sent her home to her husband and set off for Ianto’s Archives to find him.

I hope, really, that Rhys will know what to do with her. Maybe he’ll convince her to just go back to the police force. Maybe he’ll even convince her to move into a nice house out in Swansea—too far out for the Rift to reach them—and start a family. I’ll let her go. I’ll give her my blessing, even.

Ianto, I know, won’t even consider leaving. These things don’t get to him like they do the rest of us. It’s not that he doesn’t _care_. I think sometimes he cares more than the rest of us do. He’s just…used to it, claims he won’t let such things get in the way of doing his job. His past is as much a trail of death as mine is and it hurts to think of how much he’s lost in his short life.

He’s so young. He should be dating, drinking, staying innocent to the tragedies of the universe. I’ve thought, dozens of times, of slipping him Retcon and setting him back up in London. I’m torn—especially now, when everything is so horribly wrong—between wanting to do everything I can to make sure he’s as far away and as safe as I can make him and just wanting to hold him close to me and never let go.

I don’t know what to do.

I don’t know what to do about a lot of things.

Especially about Gray. My baby brother.

I’ve spent my whole life either looking for him or biding my time until I’m back in a position to get to him. Ever since I was a little boy, my deepest, dearest wish has been to see him again.

Be careful what you wish for and all that, right?

I can’t just…let him go. I can’t put him into a facility like Providence Park or even Flat Holm. He’s too clever, too dangerous. Too focused on vengeance and hatred. He’s just killed dozens, maybe hundreds of people around Cardiff, including two people I loved and would do it again without a second’s hesitation. He’d had me buried for nearly two thousand years, fully believing that I would die and resurrect over and over, a vicious, agonizing cycle.

But I can’t…I can’t kill him, either. There has been enough death here tonight, even if I could muster up the strength of will to murder my own baby brother.

This whole thing, every bit of it, is my fault. If I hadn’t let go of his hand, if I’d just been more…responsible, this whole chain of events would have been prevented. In lots of ways, I don’t think Gray can even be held responsible for what he’s done. He’s mad, he can’t help himself. He was tortured for years, until all that was left of him was madness and anger.

I still haven’t come even close to a decision when I got to Ianto’s little office in the Archives, but he was nowhere to be found. Not in the stacks, not in the secure Archives. I keep telling myself it’s nothing, that he had to be around somewhere, but my mind won’t let it go until I find him. Scenarios flit though my consciousness.

Ianto at home alone. Without me. Rejecting me.

John deciding that my Eye-candy is “better off without me” and abandoning him to some random planet and time that I’ll never be able to locate, like he used to do when he got jealous

Gray waking up and carrying on his quest for vengeance, leaving Ianto to be found somewhere, lying in a pool of his own blood. Like Tosh.

I can’t…I can’t handle it and I fall to my knees before I even reach the staircase. I suddenly can’t breathe, can’t move.

It’s too much.

I’d thought, for years and years and years, that it would all just _end_. That I’d finally find the Doctor and he’d _fix me_. I’d finally, _finally_ die for real and the pain of constantly losing everyone I ever loved would end. That this hell would be over.

But it wasn’t. I found the Doctor and it was just the beginning of a new hell. I followed him to the end of the universe and then to the end of the world. I was tortured and killed every day while he—the man I’d idolized for more than a hundred years, the man who abandoned me to isolation and starvation on an empty satellite, the man who said he couldn’t even bear to look at me—merely looked on, passive and uncaring. I watched as Saxon marched in everyone I loved—my team, my daughter—and slaughtered them for sport. And then, when all was said and done and Martha had put the world to rights again, I watched my Doctor beg my captor not to die, to leave him alone.

I’m a weak man. I play at being strong, at being a fearless leader, but I’m weak. And that broke me. I wanted to laugh in the Time Lord’s face when he’d invited me travelling, couldn’t believe my ears. But all I wanted, when the timeline reset, was to strip Ianto Jones to his skivvies and make sure every bit of him was where it was supposed to be.

I thought…I thought it’d get better from there. That my team, my Ianto, my family were all safe now. That the threat had passed. But it didn’t.

It _didn’t_.

Gray was a monster, a killer. I’d lost Owen not once, but _twice_. And Tosh, strong, fragile Toshiko was upstairs, still lying in a thickening pool of her own blood. Ianto was _gone_.

And I—I still couldn’t taste anything but dirt, still could feel it in my lungs with each panting breath. It wasn’t the Millennia that Gray had hoped for, but it took dozens of horrible, crushing resurrections before my lungs were packed with enough soil that I couldn’t breathe myself back to life.

I can’t do this anymore. I can’t _live_ like this forever. I’m falling apart, shattering into a million pieces and there’s no way I can put myself back together. I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t, I can’t.

I don’t resist when strong arms pull me close, I just press myself deeper into the embrace. Soothing Welsh tones are murmured into my ear until my breathing calms and my tears stop. The words didn’t matter, probably don’t even mean anything, but they mean all the more for it. The scent of coffee and sweat and _Ianto_ calms me like nothing else could.

Eventually, he pulls me to my feet and led me by the hand through the corridors.

“Wait,” I say. “Tosh. Gray. I have to—“

“Already done. I took care of it. Right now, you need a shower, something to eat and a long sleep. Everything else can wait.”

His words are soft, like he’s afraid I’ll break if he’s not careful, but I was already broken.

Thank god I had Ianto pick up the pieces.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: The word was “pieces.” I know this kind of thing has been done a million times before, but I felt like I needed to, anyway. It was surprisingly difficult to write. I changed it a dozen times, at least. I tried Ianto and John’s perspective. I tried different tenses. It just was a difficult thing to write. So thanks for reading.


End file.
